Every night you tell me what to do, and each morning I do what you told me. But I still don’t escape your scold. What am I?

What loses its head in the morning but gets it back at night?

I promise, I do, I offend, I point, and I fight. What am I?

Glass can't create me, but stone and steel do, I'm made by the sun, but out of its view, I can be tiny, and also be vast, In the shape of my maker, like a spell I am cast.

I am a whisper of color, reborn from a self-spun tomb. I dance on a breeze, a transient link between worlds, a symbol of transformation and the soul's uncertain flight beyond the veil.